


had i as many souls as there be stars

by stopchasingflowers



Category: The Hobbit (2012), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-05-09
Updated: 2013-05-09
Packaged: 2017-12-10 10:23:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,853
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/784983
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stopchasingflowers/pseuds/stopchasingflowers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There are hidden portals and windows into alternate realities of Middle-Earth, and when Bilbo falls into one, he begins to discover an infallible truth: that, somehow, he and Thorin Oakenshield were always meant to end up together.</p>
            </blockquote>





	had i as many souls as there be stars

One of the first things that Bilbo remembered his grandfather saying to him as a child was “that boy, there’s a drowner if I ever saw one.”

The Old Took was an eccentric fellow by hobbit standards, and Bilbo had only been eight years old at the time, but there was something incredibly unsettling about how his grandfather had so unerringly stated his supposed fate, before nonchalantly settling back into his armchair and bringing out his pipe. His father, Bungo Baggins, had laughed uncomfortably before pouring a cup of tea, relegating it to the mad delusions of a hobbit well past his prime, but Bilbo’s mother, the famous Belladonna Took, was the Old Took’s daughter and she had not been amused in the slightest. Her mouth had been a thin displeased slash of pink, her skin had blanched so much that her freckles stood out in stark contrast, and her second-best tea-cup had rattled in the floral dish as Belladonna held it by the stem. She had taken a few quick sharp breaths to calm herself, before the Old Took continued.

“I mean, it’s no certain thing,” he had chortled around the stem of his pipe, “Nothing ever is. But that boy’s going to drown, or get near to being drowned as one can be without dying—“

Fast as a whip, Belladonna had interrupted her father. “Well, what if we taught Bilbo to swim? Or, if not us, then our Brandybuck cousins. Surely then he wouldn’t drown, as you seem to insist he will?”

“Queer folk, they are,” the Old Took had mused, “Boating on the Brandywine, learning to swim!”

“Papa—“ Belladonna had cut in, throwing a worried look at her young son, who was playing with wooden toy soldiers on the rug in front of them, pretending not to listen to the grown-ups.

The Old Took had waved a paper-thin hand irritably. “Swim, don’t swim, it doesn’t matter,” he had croaked, looking down at Bilbo and his mop of wild golden curls with a gloomy expression, “I feel it down in my bones. Give it ten, twenty, thirty years, but he’s going to drown.”

Fashionably late as always, Bilbo drowned forty years later.   

 

* * *

 

It was coming up to high noon when the dwarves set up camp at the base of the Carrock with what meagre supplies they still had. It was a little early to be settling down – usually Thorin would call to set up camp at around dusk, or as close to sunset as he dared, so that there was enough natural daylight to attend to all necessary tasks. But seeing as the Eagles had brought them many leagues and saved the company days of walking, Thorin was more than content to break camp at midday. Given the obvious way that Thorin was limping and the subtle twitches and grimaces of pain on his face, no-one was loath to complain. Every time Bilbo caught sight of the damage on Thorin’s face, he had to supress a wince. The dwarf king’s face was swelling painfully, one side painted storm-purple with fresh bruises, and a cut neatly severed one thick eyebrow, dripping blood lethargically. Bilbo had also unfortunately been privy to Thorin setting his own broken nose, with a sharp shove to the brittle cartilage and a primal grunt of pain. These wounds were but superficial, however. The real damage lay underneath Thorin’s clothes, where Azog’s warg mount had held him in its powerful jaws. Warg teeth were at least as long as Bilbo’s forearm and razor sharp, and there was enough muscle behind every bite to crush bone, but thankfully, Thorin’s propensity for wearing layers of leather and chainmail had saved his life. There had been a row of small puncture wounds along Thorin’s spine and stomach, ugly and red but mercifully shallow.

Bilbo had been pottering around collecting firewood with Ori and Bifur when Oín had called for him rather urgently. Spinning in place, arms full of dry branches, Bilbo cocked an inquisitive eyebrow. Bifur and Ori had stopped their gathering duty too, their curiosity piqued.

“Is there some trouble, Master Oín?” Bilbo asked politely.

“It’s Thorin,” Oín began, and immediately Bilbo was on full alert, dropping his firewood with a clatter.

“W-What about him?” demanded Bilbo worriedly, stuttering over his words in his haste to get them out. It was embarrassing how Bilbo would drop everything in a heartbeat for Thorin, and he knew it, but it still didn’t stop him from fretting needlessly. Or, for that matter, it didn’t stop the blush creeping up the nape of his neck. “Is he all right? His wounds aren’t infected or anything? Can I help?”

Oín held up a hand to quieten him, with a small wry smile. “Peace, lad,” he chuckled, shaking his head, “Nothing quite so serious, so you can take that grim look off your face.” Bilbo, in times of great mortification, almost always fell back on humour to preserve him, so he clutched a wad of fabric above his heart and made beseeching noises, exaggerating the anxiety on his face. “We just need a pair of small hands to aid us in stitching up his wounds, ‘tis all. We thought you best for the job.”

Bilbo hopped, skipped and shimmed over his pile of firewood and stood next to Oín, his hands wringing together. “Stitching?” He repeated incredulously, “Are you sure I’m the right person for the job? I’m not exactly known for…” He wrinkled his nose pensively. “My warm bedside manner.”

That made Oín laugh, a low infectious cackle. “It isn’t warm bedside manner we’re after, lad,” He said, but not unkindly, “Just a small pair of hands. Come, Thorin’s been incessantly asking for you.”

That made Bilbo’s stomach flip-flop nervously. “Has he?” Bilbo asked hopefully.

“Oh, aye, Dwalin has been threatening to knock him out for a good half hour.”

Bilbo looked over his shoulder to Bifur and Ori. “Would you mind if I left to do this?”

Ori smiled, a shy sliver of crooked white teeth. “Not at all, Mister Baggins,” he said, “Me and Bifur will finish up here, not to worry. You go and attend to Thorin.”

Bifur said something loud and reassuring in Khuzdul.

“I’m to take that as a yes,” Bilbo said, dipping into a bow, “At your service, Master Bifur, Master Ori.”

“At yours, rather!” Ori chirped in farewell, while wandering off in search of more firewood, Bifur in tow.

The sun was at its zenith and the heat was making the walk back to camp unbearable. Bilbo had left his jacket and waistcoat back at the camp, folded up neatly, thank  _you_ very much. He was down to his thin cotton shirt, sleeves rolled up his forearms and suspenders hanging around his hips, but even that seemed like too much fabric. Bilbo glanced out of the corner of his eye at Oín and mentally shook his head at the amount of layers he was wearing. Midsummer’s Day had passed a while back and it made Bilbo think longingly back to the Shire, to Bag End, to the sweet cloying smell of new hay, to bowls of strawberries and cream, to naps in his hammock, to cold pints of ale, to dancing underneath the Party Tree with paper lanterns swinging off every branch, to smoking on his porch in the warm evenings and watching the lazy swirls of luminescent fireflies in his garden. At this point in his adventure, Bilbo’s homesickness had quietened down to a whisper, the pain dulled down to a mild twinge, but sometimes his longing for the Shire flared up unexpectedly, whip-fast and agonising. It was enough to leave Bilbo gasping, a small heavy knot of panic settling behind his sternum.

Fortunately, there was no time to dwell on such things, as Oín and Bilbo rounded on the camp, where a small fire was crackling away, Bombur fussing over a simmering stew and a skinned deer turning on a spit. Dwalin, Dori and Bofur were cleaning and oiling their weapons, the latter two giving Bilbo a friendly smile and a nod, whereas Dwalin merely grunted. Although, Bilbo reasoned, that was the most cordial greeting he had ever wrung from Dwalin, so all in all, it was a victory. Nori and Gloin were smoking their pipes and talking about some such thing in their native tongue of Khuzdul. To the centre of the camp, Fili, Kili and Balin had gathered around Thorin. The two young Durin heirs were sat next to their uncle, while Balin stood some distance away, looking fondly exasperated. By the looks of things, Fili and Kili were foisting two flasks at Thorin, who regarded them briefly before drinking from both.

“What on earth,” Bilbo said bemusedly, “is happening here?”

“Well, my lad,” Oín said, “Let me put it this way. That’s not water.”

Bilbo rolled his eyes. Even after being kidnapped by goblins and run ramshackle through mountain and glen, of course some of the dwarves would have managed to save their alcohol. Ale and mead didn’t keep well in skins or metal flasks, so it would be the harder liquor, like whiskey and brandy. Unlike ale and mead, however, whiskey and brandy tended to punch out the lights of most dwarves when consumed in large quantities. Bilbo recalled their memorable stay in Rivendell, when the Elves had introduced them to their alcohol, which was a crystal clear, pungent and frighteningly strong spirit. After turning their noses up at what excuse elves had for alcohol, some of the younger dwarves had pints of the stuff, ignoring one elf’s advice as to only drink little thimbles of it. Bilbo distinctly remembered a lot of tiptoeing around the next morning.

Kili turned around, noticed Bilbo, and waved furiously. “Bilbo!”

Bilbo walked over to meet them and sighed, resisting the urge to rub at his temples. “Hullo, boys. Behaving yourselves?”

“As much as we’re able,” Fili shrugged. He leant down to irreverently smack Thorin on the shoulder, who was drifting off, dozing lightly with his head hanging low, jet-black braids swinging, “Hoy, uncle, Bilbo’s here to patch you up.”

“Mm, Bilbo?” Thorin mumbled, waking up immediately and looking up at Bilbo with a slight squint due to the brightness of the afternoon sun. There was something very aesthetically pleasing about the black of his eyelashes around the cold blue of his irises. To Bilbo’s lasting astonishment and private delight, Thorin smiled up at him, a small gentle curve that deepened the crinkles at the corners of his eyes. “Well met again, burglar. You look a little sunburnt, especially on your nose.”

“Oh,” Bilbo said, flushing underneath Thorin's scrutiny and not knowing how to reply.

Thorin seemed to sense Bilbo’s confusion. “Ah, I’ve been drinking, forgive me,” Thorin explained with a sigh, rubbing at his tired and swollen eyes. He looked a little disappointed in himself.

“Oh,” Bilbo said again, crestfallen.

“For a while now,” Thorin elaborated, taking a flask that Kili had proffered and taking a long swig. Bilbo watched the apple in his throat bob. “So, I’m a little out of sorts. Apparently, it will dull the pain when you stitch up my wounds but I’ve only Balin to thank for that suggestion. I don't normally drink.”

Come to think of it, his breath did carry the heaviness of malt and rye. It was not unpleasant, per se, just a little incongruous with Thorin’s normally put-together demeanour. His streaked black hair was pulled up in a thick ponytail but his long braids fell loose; all of his armour had been shucked to the ground, so he was only wearing a thin blue undershirt and doeskin leggings. His feet were bare, long toes curling, Bilbo noted, and tried not to smile. He also ignored the temptation of looking at where the collar of Thorin’s undershirt fell open, exposing the curve of his chest and the damp dark curls of his thick chest hair. As Thorin guiltily took another gulp of brandy, Bilbo turned his head to arch an eyebrow at Balin, silently accusing, and the elderly dwarf chuckled, his thumbs in his belt loops.

“It isn’t my fault that he’s a lightweight,” Balin defended, retreating next to his brother.

Fili sidled up to Bilbo’s side, looking sly. “Aye,” he sighed melodramatically, “Uncle’s always been a right milksop when it comes to spirits. Brings shame to the entire Durin line, he does.”

Thorin glared at him but the effect was lessened by the fact that his eyelids kept drooping.

“And do you know the beauty of it?” Kili said, appearing at Bilbo’s elbow, smiling like a shark, “He won’t remember a thing afterwards. It’s like wiping a slate clean. He could marry an elven princess like this and not remember until he found the marriage certificate the next day.”

Thorin closed his eyes as if in pain and snarled. Bilbo grinned. He could practically feel Thorin regretting the decision to bring his nephews along with him on this quest. There was nothing quite like family to humiliate you with such ruthless efficiency and precision. 

“All right, enough of that,” Bilbo interrupted, pitying Thorin, “Am I to stitch you up or not?”

“Would you, please,” Thorin grit out, “before I murder these two in cold blood.”

Kili pressed something into Bilbo’s hand. It turned out to be needles and a spool of thread wrapped up in a skein of fabric.

“It’s just like sewing a shirt,” Kili added brightly, presumably to be helpful, but failing miserably.

“Except that shirts don’t  _bleed,_ ” grumbled Bilbo but he took it anyway.

“Oh, you’ll need this too,” Fili cut in, handing Bilbo his flask. Metal, intricately decorated and half full of – Bilbo uncapped it and took a tentative sniff – malt whiskey, by the smell of it. “He’s got brandy in another flask for drinking, this is just to disinfect the wounds before you sew them up. Good luck.”

“Good luck, indeed,” harrumphed Bilbo, watching them retreat to the campfire. He stood in front of Thorin, biting his lip contemplatively, before tapping him once on the shoulder. “Shirt off, please.”

Thorin took another long swig from the flask, seemingly bristling at the mere suggestion. “Pardon?”

“I can’t sew you up through your shirt,” Bilbo said simply, hands on his hips.

“Oh, that’s right,” murmured Thorin, subdued, his eyes flickering in embarrassment.

Bilbo shook his head fondly. Thorin seemed to be quite endearing while tipsy. But, endearing or no, that didn’t stop the hot miserable blush that crept up from Bilbo’s chest to the nape of his neck, spreading to the tips of his ears, when Thorin unceremoniously took his shirt off, carefully peeling blue cotton away from sweat-damp skin, wincing a little when the fabric snagged on a coagulated wound. Bilbo had to take a few deep breaths to steady himself. There was something intoxicating about how pale Thorin’s skin was in comparison with the dark whorls of body hair, how heavily built and thickset his muscular body was compared to the fineness of his face. He looked every inch a warrior-king of old, except, perhaps, for when he occasionally swayed to one side and took a furtive sip of brandy as if he were still a tween, giddily drinking from his father's stash.

“Hold still, you old lush,” scolded Bilbo, but not without affection, moving behind Thorin and gently manoeuvring him off the fallen trunk and onto the grass, taking his place on the makeshift seat.

“Hardly a lush,” Thorin replied half-heartedly, but gamely allowed Bilbo to push him down.

“Just the old part, then,” parried Bilbo.

“Older than  _you_ ,” Thorin allowed benignly.

Now, Thorin sat cross-legged between Bilbo’s thighs, the curve of his spine rising to greet him like the sliver of a crescent moon. Bilbo’s mouth went dry at the jut of Thorin’s shoulder blades and the powerful shift of muscles underneath his skin. Without thinking, he pressed his hand against the warmth of Thorin’s back, splaying his fingers out, but gingerly avoiding the teeth marks that were just starting to scab over. They looked terrible, Bilbo thought sadly. The puncture wounds were shallow but wide, and puffy, though hopefully not with infection. Bilbo sighed as he stroked an old silvery burn scar mindlessly with his fingertips. Beneath his touch, Thorin stirred and cast a look over his shoulder.

“Is there something wrong?” Thorin asked. “Or are you having second thoughts?”

Bilbo snatched his hand away as if Thorin’s skin was like a furnace that burnt to the touch. “N-No,” he stammered, casting about for a lie, “Sorry, forgive me. I’ve no experience in this matter. Surely there’s someone better who could do this for you? Oín’s the healer, is he not?”

“I asked for you, and you alone,” Thorin said, “There’s no-one else I’d rather trust with it.”

The conviction in his voice settled some of the nerves, at least. Bilbo hummed thoughtfully, trying to regulate his breathing.

“If I hadn’t saved you from Azog, you wouldn’t let me do this,” he accused but with no real malice.

Thorin’s shoulders shook with amusement, laughing deep in his chest.

“Perhaps,” Thorin admitted. “Perhaps not. At least I know you to be capable of all sorts, Mr Baggins, and that’s why I asked for you.”

“That, or you craved my scintillating company and our witty repartee, no doubt,” Bilbo sighed.

Thorin smirked over his broad shoulder at him.

Bilbo made a beckoning gesture by crooking his first two fingers. “Look, just hand over the flask, would you? I’m not doing this without some liquid courage.”

“Aren’t there proverbs about mixing Halflings with hard liquor?” Thorin asked, but he handed the flask over regardless.

There weren’t, Bilbo was adamant, at least, none that he had heard of. Bilbo uncapped it and took a healthy swig, grimacing and lips puckering as the liquor burnt all the way down to his stomach. “Oh, that’s vile,” Bilbo sputtered, face crumpling, giving the flask back, “Bloody dwarves.”

Thorin drank the last of the brandy without wiping the lip first, which Bilbo found strangely intimate, like it was a second-hand kiss. “You did ask for it. Will you stitch me up now, burglar?”

“Not with that attitude,” Bilbo complained, squinting as he threaded the small needle and knotted the end. The brandy was warming him up from the inside, his stomach and throat burning, and it was an unbearable heat, especially paired with the sunshine beating down on them both.

Thorin didn’t seem outwardly perturbed, even though he was from a cold climate and despite the soft sheen of sweat on his skin. Normally, Bilbo would be put off by it, but there was something erotic about it that he couldn’t quite put his finger on. The smell was quite pleasant, actually, a sweet sharp tang, metallic on his tongue. Suddenly, Bilbo was struck with the violent urge to bury his nose in Thorin’s underarm hair and just  _inhale_ , or kiss away the warm salty dampness on the nape of the dwarf’s neck.

He was turning into such a deviant, Bilbo realised with a sigh, and what a strange epiphany that was. Most likely, it was the body hair. Hobbits had little to none of it, so whenever Bilbo saw any of Thorin’s, his mind whited out for a few seconds. Bilbo had long ago since come to the conclusion that Thorin would be the death of him.

“This suspense,” Thorin rumbled, “is going to kill me faster than the infection.”

That brought Bilbo out of his reverie, and just to spite Thorin, he sank the needle a few centimetres deep into his skin without warning. Thorin hissed between his teeth and, to Bilbo’s amusement, wriggled uncomfortably. “Hateful little hobbit,” muttered Thorin, as Bilbo wiped away the beads of blood that welled up, leaving a wide red smear on Thorin’s faintly freckled skin and his own thumb.

“Don’t distract me,” warned Bilbo, dimpling Thorin’s skin with the point of the needle contemplatively, “I used to knit back home, you know. I’ll crochet you into a fine scarf, see if I don’t.”

“They told me of the horrors,” said Thorin mildly, “of field medicine. They must have left out the part about the knitwear.”

Bilbo huffed with laughter, breath tickling Thorin’s damp skin. “I must make a note to persuade you to imbibe more often. You’re wonderfully even-tempered like this. I daresay you’re almost likeable.”

“Well,” said Thorin pensively, mostly to himself, “we can’t have that, can we?”

“Hush,” Bilbo said shortly. To his amusement, Thorin shut his mouth immediately.

Bilbo hesitated on the first stitch, the sensation of pulling together separated skin enough to make him feel sick, but he bravely swallowed the nausea down and continued. After the third stitch, his confidence grew, and he made sure to douse each puncture wound with the whiskey Fili had given him. Thorin barely twitched at the sting of alcohol on exposed flesh, though whether or not it was to impress Bilbo, he couldn’t say. There was a particularly sore gouge right on the top of Thorin’s spine that had Bilbo fretting. He murmured “could you—?” while shifting Thorin’s long grey-streaked ponytail out of the way, and Thorin grunted an affirmative, reaching back for his thick mass of hair. The way it made the pronounced muscles in his upper arms flex and tauten, and the way it exposed his damp silky dark curls of armpit hair, had Bilbo closing his eyes briefly and swallowing to contain himself. With it lifted out of the way, however, Bilbo could start to sew up the last wound, with a fluidity that was borne out of false bravado.

It was the most content Bilbo had felt so far on the journey, to have Thorin so close to him and so quiet, so warm, so pliant. With the last stitch firmly in place, knotted off to prevent the wound re-opening, Bilbo was loath to stop. He needed more time to memorise all of Thorin’s awful scars and to ask about the stories behind each one, and to touch every one of his faint sun freckles, and to trace the indigo-blue geometric patterns of his tattoos. But Bilbo had already indulged enough. It was an honour enough to have Thorin go from disliking him to trust him with sewing up his wounds, flashing little smiles over his shoulder, and to be bared to him in all sense of the word. It was _enough._  

Infatuation was a dangerous emotion, and Bilbo barely had the reins on it. He would not let them loose from his grasp and lose control of it, to allow it to consume him or make a mockery of him. And, above all, Bilbo swore vehemently to himself, he would not let it twist him up and make him bitter. It would be catastrophic, especially when Thorin did not reciprocate even the barest bones of Bilbo’s affections. But such was the time-old tragedy of loving someone unattainable: the agony of proximity.

“You make a good patient,” Bilbo complimented, “How long will these take to heal, do you think?”

Thorin hummed thoughtfully, deep in his throat, and scratched at his coarse beard. “Dwarven constitution is famous for a reason,” he said, “We are notoriously hard to wound, and even harder to kill. We also heal swiftly and can suffer exhaustion longer, though not as long as elves. We are a hardy, enduring folk. In any case, these are but scratches. They will heal within a fortnight, I wager.” 

Bilbo spluttered indignantly. “Scratches! _Scratches!_ ” He reached over the dwarf’s broad shoulder and flicked Thorin on the shell of his large ear admonishingly, to which Thorin barked with laughter. “You are a rotten show-off, Thorin Oakenshield, and an incorrigible exaggerator. Scratches, indeed!”

“They _are,_ ” Thorin insisted stubbornly, “I have had worse.”

To that, Bilbo flicked the other ear. “Scratches do not need sixty-seven stitches,” he said primly.

“You counted them?” Thorin sounded surprised, rubbing mulishly at his stinging ear.

“Well, it’s difficult not to,” Bilbo conceded, “It tends to get a little tedious after a while.”

Thorin grunted. “I’m afraid your work’s not done yet, burglar. I still have wounds on my chest that need attending to.” He caught the way that Bilbo balked visibly. “I’m sorry,” he said, a little uselessly, looking pained. Thorin had apologised more to Bilbo in that day than he had to anyone in years. “I would do it myself, but the angle— it makes it difficult to do it right,” Thorin trailed off lamely.

“N-No, it’s not a problem,” stuttered Bilbo faintly, feeling the tips of his ears blush hot. He hopped off the log and rounded on Thorin, silently taking in the beautiful sight that was Thorin on his knees. Bilbo crouched down, resting on his heels, a hand splayed out on Thorin’s shoulder to balance himself. “Oh,” Bilbo said, biting his bottom lip, seeing the damage on Thorin’s chest, “Hmm. That’s— _hmm._ ”

“Not the prettiest of sights, is it?” said Thorin self-deprecatingly, in a dark, low and amused tone.

There was a lot of blood, dried and matted in the dark pelt on Thorin’s chest. The marks themselves were fewer but deeper than the ones on Thorin’s back. They’d need more stitches and would scar terribly unless Bilbo was very careful.

“To say the least,” Bilbo muttered, “Not exactly something I can kiss better.”

The nape of Bilbo’s neck burnt and his stomach froze over at what he had just foolishly said. Mercifully, Thorin had seemed to ignore it or brushed it aside as nothing, because all he did was smile, even as warm rivulets of nervous sweat pooled in the dimples at the bottom of Bilbo’s spine. 

Thorin chuckled, lowering his head, his braids swinging. “Perhaps the kiss of a needle, then.”

From any other person, Bilbo lamented inwardly, that would have been considered a flirtation. It was his misfortune to have fallen in love with the only dwarf in Middle-Earth to not recognise a come-on even if it punched him in the face. Running a hand over his eyes, Bilbo sighed and held up a finger.

“Half a moment,” Bilbo said, before scurrying towards the campfire. After a few minutes, he returned bearing a shallow dish of recently boiled water, charmed away from Dori in the middle of making tea, and a strip of clean cloth in there to soak.

Thorin gave him a suspicious look as Bilbo settled down on the parched summer grass before him.

“Well, I have to clean your wounds before I stitch them up,” said Bilbo defensively, raising the sodden strip of cloth to wring it out neatly, clean water dribbling back into the bowl. Little curls of steam rose gently from the surface. “There’s no point in me stitching up dirty or infected wounds, is there? So cease your silent belly-aching. I can practically hear you _thinking_ about complaining, and I shan’t have it.”

Surprisingly, Thorin looked subdued, a most pleasing expression on him. “Why can’t you clean and disinfect my wounds at the same time with the alcohol?” He asked, genuinely contrite and curious.

“Well,” replied Bilbo peevishly, “it’s a regrettable waste of good whiskey, for starters.”

“Oh, aye,” agreed Thorin solemnly, with a shadow of a smile that he tried to hide.

Bilbo leant forward to clean the uppermost wound, a nasty puncture high on Thorin’s pectoral muscle, and Thorin hissed between his teeth at the burn of hot water and sting of alcohol. Plucking the needle and thread from where he had held it tightly between his crooked white eyeteeth, Bilbo murmured nonsensical encouraging sounds, as if he were gentling a panicked horse instead of an irritated dwarf. To sew it up, Bilbo had to stand between Thorin’s widespread thighs, something Bilbo had to steadfastly ignore lest he come undone on the very spot, and bend over him. They were so close that Bilbo’s unruly gold curls, as well as his warm breath, tickled the side of Thorin’s throat. He could even hear the apple of Thorin’s throat click when the dwarf swallowed. It was far too intimate for Bilbo’s comfort and he began to perspire more out of social awkwardness than the afternoon sun. There was a terrifying second where Bilbo’s bare cheek brushed up against the grain of Thorin’s beard. Bilbo had to force himself to rear back, heart hammering, otherwise he would have had to explain why he was rubbing his cheek so enthusiastically against Thorin’s facial hair, something dreadfully erotic in the scratch-drag-burn of it, silky-soft one way, coarse the other. 

Biting off the last of the thread, Bilbo drained the last of the whiskey in a bid for the liquid courage to settle in his veins. The last wound to sew was in a place that made Bilbo swallow – low on Thorin’s stomach, more or less where belly met groin, where his chest hair thinned and tapered down to vanish underneath the waistband. Bilbo shot a quick look at Thorin, who seemed to have mercifully dozed off, eyes closed, lips parted, head hanging again. Before he could think twice, Bilbo exhaled hard and flattened his hand against the wound, the wet strip of cloth wrapped around his hand scrubbing away the caked-on blood. Beneath his touch, Thorin’s muscles jumped and fluttered imperceptibly, and above Bilbo’s head, unbeknownst to the hobbit, Thorin opened his blue eyes.

In an attempt to get the whole humiliating process over and done with as swiftly as possible, Bilbo’s stitches came out a little crooked, but he doggedly pressed on, smearing away any beads of blood. Above him, Thorin’s hand clenched and unclenched, hovering in mid-air, before nervously settling on top of Bilbo’s head. Mid-stitch, Bilbo didn’t startle for fear of stabbing Thorin inadvertently, but he felt blood rush to his face, especially when Thorin’s fingers flexed instinctively, threading through his soft gold curls. Suddenly, Bilbo was hyper-sensitive to everything, the calluses on Thorin’s fingertips, the faint scratch of his nails against his scalp, even the leap of his pulse in a vein near Thorin’s hipbone. He was made aware of the listless warm breeze stirring his hair, the sun beating down on the back of his neck, the rustle of the wind in the trees. Bilbo was also made distinctly aware of the compromising position he was in and his mind flitted dreamily to another scenario where he’d be on his knees and between Thorin’s thighs, with the dwarf tugging on his hair.

Bilbo finished the row of stitches and swallowed hard. 

“There,” Bilbo said unnecessarily, his voice too loud in his ears, “Done.” 

Thorin stretched, testing the give and pull of the stitches, before relaxing, obviously pleased. Bilbo mournfully noted that Thorin had taken away his hand, missing the warmth and the weight. “I thank you, burglar,” the dwarf rumbled.

Bilbo shrugged, forever self-deprecating. “Anything to prove I’m not useless,” he said. 

Thorin frowned. “I told you that I did not think you a burden. As it happens, I think quite the opposite.” 

Bilbo sucked in a sharp breath as Thorin cupped his jaw, rough skin rasping against his own. His hand was large and warm, his thumb dangerously close to resting on Bilbo’s bottom lip. Bilbo could feel the strength behind it, trembling at the way Thorin cradled his face in one hand, how he could effortlessly lift and _snap_ , neck broken like a baby bird’s. It was frightening how delicate Bilbo felt in comparison to Thorin, how brutish Thorin felt to him, and it scared Bilbo how much that _excited_ him, how it made heat curl in his gut and his breath quicken, blood beating in his cheeks. Thorin could pick him up so effortlessly, like he weighed nothing at all, and Bilbo would let Thorin manhandle him to his heart's content because he was just so _strong._ But the shame followed shortly thereafter and Bilbo loathed himself utterly for turning such a comforting innocent gesture into something that it wasn’t. He licked his lips and his tongue grazed Thorin’s thumb.

Thorin’s eyes went dark with something unnameable and he brought his hand away. 

"You stitch well," Thorin said, his voice a little too loud, doggedly making eye contact with everything but Bilbo, "For a man."

"You'd find me more useful as a woman?" Bilbo asked sardonically, eyebrow raised.

"I'd find you appealing as a woman," replied Thorin, still not looking at him.

Bilbo’s heart, which had been in his throat for the past five minutes, sank suddenly.

“Oh,” he croaked sadly, “Oh, I see.”

Thorin looked puzzled, staring down at Bilbo. “You see what, exactly?”

In one smooth motion, Bilbo had stood up and taken a step back away from Thorin, who was looking up at him like he had lost his mind.

“I’d be just as useless as a woman, you know,” Bilbo said unhappily, his voice shaking, prodding Thorin rudely in the chest. Vindictively, Bilbo aimed unerringly for the newly sewn up wound just above Thorin’s heart, which made the dwarf grunt with pain. “Just as small, just as weak, just as stubborn, stupid and fussy. Nothing would change _that_. I’d still be _me_.”

“Bilbo, I _know_ that it would be you,” Thorin growled, brows knit together, “I'm just trying to say—“

Blood had seeped from the wound Bilbo had prodded, painting a thin line of red down Thorin’s skin, trapped in his thick chest hair. It was all so insufferable that Bilbo’s rather tenuous hold on his own self-denial snapped.

“Do me a favour, would you?” interrupted Bilbo rather rudely, holding up an index finger admonishingly at Thorin like he was a recalcitrant child instead of a king, “Be quiet.”

“Burglar—“

“Would you kindly shut _up_ ,” Bilbo hissed with more venom than he intended.

Instead of fear, he felt a short sharp thrill of excitement at how Thorin’s eyes widened, and then darkened, how the dwarf shifted his weight and curled his upper lip up in a sneer, a snarl or a smile, Bilbo couldn’t say which. They were too close now, unbearably so. Bilbo could feel Thorin’s warm breath on his wet lips. Thorin was twitching with tension, like he was readying himself for a fight and Bilbo was drunk on the way the dwarf moved, slow and steady and deliberate, each movement carefully weighed and considered.

“You forget to whom you speak, burglar,” Thorin rumbled dangerously, but there was a glimmer of dark amusement in his eyes, a smirk even as he parted his mouth, “You forget your place.”

“I don’t care,” snapped Bilbo. _But you like it,_ he thought wildly. _You love it, even. You_ _love the challenge, you love it when I talk back and you love it when I refuse to bow down and crumple before you. You love that I’m not afraid of you._ Bilbo swallowed and held Thorin’s stare, even as the dwarf smiled grimly, a lopsided curve of his mouth that had Bilbo’s heart thumping loudly in his chest.

“I don’t care,” Bilbo repeated, out of bravado this time, “You’re not _my_ king. I need not obey you at all."

“And why is that?” Thorin asked, intrigued despite himself. 

“Because I find you rude and utterly disagreeable,” Bilbo said fiercely, his jaw set.

This made Thorin flash a quick and crooked grin, as if Bilbo’s fussiness was enough to break his carefully constructed façade, and it made Bilbo’s toes want to curl in delight with how mischievous it was. The familial resemblance to Kili at that point was uncanny; they were both wild-haired, white-toothed and utterly mad, of course, but when they smiled, they looked like mirror images of one another.

“Is that so?” Thorin asked sincerely, leaning down those several superfluous inches to level out with Bilbo’s height. He gave out heat like a furnace. “Is that so?” He repeated, quieter this time.

Bilbo quivered at the proximity but Thorin took it for indignation.

“Yes,” Bilbo whimpered, before clearing his throat noisily. “Yes. Rude and— I just can’t _abide_ being around you.”

“That’s a shame,” said Thorin enigmatically, straightening up.

Suddenly, Bilbo couldn’t stand being around Thorin for a second longer than he needed to, with the metallic tang of his sweat and the bright spark of his eyes and the dark stormy rumble of his voice. He made a sound of disgust at the back of his throat and threw his hands up in defeat.

“Do you know what?” Bilbo declared, spinning on his heel and marching towards camp. Behind him, Thorin crossed his arms and frowned. “I’m finished here. I’m done with dwarves for the moment.”

As Bilbo began to snatch up his ruined waistcoat and jacket, fuming and muttering under his breath, Kili sent his brother an alarmed look, which Fili mirrored, like reflections of one another. They had a hurried and hissed conversation in Khuzdul, supplementing their words with quick stabbing iglishmêk hand signs, but before the brothers could come to blows, Bofur stepped in as tactfully as he possibly could.

“Where are you off to, Bilbo?” Bofur asked jovially, smoothly taking Bilbo’s elbow and pulling him away from the campfire. His expression and tone was one of feigned nonchalance, but there was an undercurrent of concern and even thinly veiled panic. Given that it was Bofur who had caught Bilbo before he slipped away in the mountains to return to Rivendell, it was no small wonder that Bofur would be increasingly heedful of Bilbo’s comings and goings. “Not running off again, I hope?”

“No,” snapped Bilbo, “I’m just—“ He sighed and his shoulders crumpled. “I just need some time alone, is that quite alright?” Bilbo asked, folding his jacket up, “I might have a bath or something. Is there anywhere around here that I could go?”

Bofur scratched thoughtfully underneath the brim of his hat. “Well, that’s fine, then. When he came back from scouting, Nori said that there was a pool fed by a small waterfall about ten minutes south of here. It’s in a copse of oak trees, I think, you can’t miss it. Just don’t be too long. Sound fair?”

Bilbo nodded with a weak smile. “Well, it’s no bubble bath at Bag End, but I’ll take what I can get.”

“Do me a favour, would you?” Bofur said suddenly, looking over his shoulder in Thorin’s direction.

“Yes?” Bilbo said politely, stomach sinking.

“Would you take your sword? I’d feel a lot better knowing you’re armed.”

“Oh, is that it? I thought you were going to make me apologise to Thorin.”

Bofur snorted. “What? Nah. Dwarves rarely apologise to one another, and definitely not to other races. No offense, master hobbit,” He interjected kindly when Bilbo wrinkled his nose. “So I’d never force you to apologise to Thorin. We only apologise when it comes down to affairs like life-debts and settled grudges, things like that.”

“Terrific,” said Bilbo bitterly as he buckled his sword onto his left hip.

“Besides,” continued Bofur thoughtfully, “it’s Thorin who would have to apologise to you.”

“How so?” Bilbo looked up, surprised, “He already apologised for doubting me. He even thanked me.”

“You did just spend a good deal of time stitching him up. And you did save the life of the _king,_ ” stressed Bofur, looking frustrated, “That’s a big deal. Technically, Thorin’s in your debt, still.”

“But he won’t apologise to me over a petty squabble because of his pride, even though he’d be dead if it weren’t for me?” Bilbo rolled his eyes. “Bofur, I say this as a friend, but your culture is very peculiar. And I’ll be damned if I break first and apologise to him. Thorin owes _me._ ”

Bofur cocked his head and grinned. “Hobbits could give dwarf stubbornness a run for its money, though. You’re like a mule. However much you tug, you just dig your heels in the mud.”

“It’s a Baggins family trait,” Bilbo quipped tiredly, “Useful for dealing with busybody relatives.”

“Ha, well, unfortunately,” smiled Bofur, “it is also a Durin family trait.”

Bilbo side-eyed Thorin glumly. “Terrific,” he said again.

Bofur slapped him companionably on the shoulder. “Don’t be too long, y’hear?”

“I won’t,” Bilbo called half-heartedly over his shoulder as he delicately picked his way to the edges of the camp, disappearing into the shady undergrowth with barely a sound to mark him there at all.

Behind him, Bilbo’s sensitive ears overheard Thorin asking Bofur where the burglar was going, and Bilbo allowed himself a small victorious smirk despite everything before he plunged into the woods.

 

* * *

 

Under the heavy boughs, even the shadows were dank and thick and sweet. The humid air made a leisurely stroll seem like one was wading through treacle. Warm sweat was trickling down Bilbo’s spine with every movement, plastering his shirt to him like a second skin. Frankly, it was a sensation that he was not very fond of. It made Bilbo wish longingly for the mild summers back in the Shire, where he didn’t burn in the sun but, instead, exploded into freckles for the most part. Bilbo rolled back one of the sleeves of his shirt as he walked, eyeing the faint splotches that were already appearing. It reminded him of the galaxy of pale freckles that were splashed across the bridge of Thorin’s strong nose and his cheekbones. Bilbo coughed awkwardly. It occurred to him that maybe few people got so close and intimate with Thorin Oakenshield that they even knew he had freckles. Perhaps he was part of a privileged few.

Not that he’d ever have the chance to see them again. 

“Bah,” Bilbo grumbled softly to himself, tipping his face upwards to catch the sun that poured through the leaves, his skin dappled with shadows, “I don’t care. Damn that dwarf to whatever foul end.”

 _If only I were a woman,_ _indeed_ , thought Bilbo crossly, vaguely noting the copse of oak trees that Bofur had mentioned and pushing his way into the grove, tree sap smearing onto his cheekbones. _"I'd find you appealing as one."_ What on earth did that even mean, anyway? Would he be of more use as another gender? Or was Thorin simply implying that as a woman he’d be fairer to look upon, more pleasing, more like a treasure to him? Dwarves revered women, so maybe it was a societal aestheticism and respect that just bled through? _Or I’m simply reading too much into this,_ thought Bilbo. _He essentially admitted that he only likes women._

Bilbo simultaneously felt sick with disappointment and hot with humilation.

But his tumultuous thoughts suddenly came to a standstill when he took in the sheltered pool tucked into the end of the grove. A small thin waterfall fed it, carving gently through the rock face above it. It looked remarkably similar to the ice-cold plunge pools the elves had back in Rivendell, adjacent to their baths. Shucking his jacket, waistcoat and sheathed sword to the ground, Bilbo knelt down in the grass  and dipped his hand into the cool clear water, letting it trickle between his fingers with relish.

“Oh, that’s almost too good to be true,” Bilbo said out loud, groaning with how good it felt on his too-warm skin. “That’s… that’s practically obscene, that is.” 

He stood quickly, wriggling out of his braces and biting on the tip of his tongue as he undid all the buttons on his rapidly greying shirt. Bilbo felt bad for his clothes and the wear and tear he had put them through over the previous months. His waistcoat was still ruined from his hurried escape from that wretched creature deep in the mountains and Bilbo mourned his brass buttons briefly. 

When he folded up his shirt and placed it on top of his threadbare waistcoat, pinning the pile of clothes down with a rock, Bilbo dipped his fingers into his pocket and felt the reassuring cold curve of his magic ring. Bilbo paused when he went to unbuckle his belt, his ingrained hobbit modesty rearing its head momentarily, and he looked around suspiciously as he heard a rustle in the undergrowth. He instinctively grabbed his sword and nervously flexed his fingers around the sweat-sticky pommel. For some reason that was inexplicable to him, Bilbo groped for his ring in his waistcoat pocket, pulled it out, and put it safely in his trouser pocket instead.

“Hello?” Bilbo called. “Anyone there? I’d rather there not be, I’d hate to die while half-naked.”

There was no reply, nor much sound, save for the barest hint of a sultry breeze, and if Bilbo pricked his ears, he could hear the faint strains of singing from camp. Bilbo shrugged. Most likely an animal passing through the undergrowth, like a rabbit or a vole or some such small beast.

“That’s that, then,” Bilbo said and did something very foolish: he stepped backwards without looking.

His feet tried to grip for purchase on slippery wet rock but to no avail and Bilbo lurched backwards, with an embarrassingly loud shout. In those precious few moments that one is granted when something terrible is happening, where time seems to sluggishly pass, Bilbo let go of the pommel of his sword as he fell, scrunching his eyes up tight and taking a deep breath even as the water rushed up to meet him. The back of his head crunched against a rock with a sickening fleshy sound, and before Bilbo went under the water, between the cacophonic ringing in his ears and the fuzziness in his head, he distantly heard his sword fall into the water with him.

Bilbo sank dreamily for a good ten seconds before survival instinct jolted him awake. In his peripheral vision, the blood from his scalp wound drifted up in rust-orange curls, in a morbidly beautiful way. This was the time most hobbits would panic. Save for old age and disease, drowning was how most hobbits in the Shire died because they simply didn’t know how to swim, learning to fear the water from a young age. However, Bilbo Baggins was unlike most hobbits. His mother had taught him in the Brandywine on one of the hottest days of the year, after that mad excuse for a grandfather of his had rasped that Bilbo’s grave was a watery one. Swimming was simple. Swimming was kicking and pushing. There was nothing to it. Kick and push, kick and push.

Bilbo kicked and pushed. Nothing happened. He was sinking even faster, if that were possible.

 _My brave boy!_ Belladonna cooed proudly, up to her duckweed-caked thighs in the Brandywine River, holding up her freckled eight year old son in the water as he tenaciously paddled his little heart out. Belladonna Took, who squeezed fresh lemon juice into her hair in the summer to make it even more golden than it already was, who spoke fluent Elvish, wore trousers and smoked a pipe, who went on mad adventures in strange lands. _My beautiful brave Bilbo, look at you! I’m so proud of you!_

Bilbo accidentally coughed out the last remaining air in his lungs.

 _Sorry, mum,_ Bilbo thought.

As last thoughts went, there were better, but that seemed appropriate.

There was a distinct _thud_ as Bilbo’s body sank to rest against the soft grey silt at the bottom of the pool, pinned there from the weight of the water. A flash of light against metal sparked in the corner of his eye. It was his elven sword joining him to lie there in the silt, to rust as Bilbo would rot, like a loyal dog at the side of its master, even at the very end. Bilbo’s lips parted and he laughed, a muffled burst of bubbles _,_ and his curls of gold hair wafted in front of his face. What a ridiculous way to go. He stared up at the surface of the water, so far up, so out of reach. He watched the light reflect like diamonds in the water and the twining coils of his blood seep from his stinging head wound.

Something shifted. Bilbo had about two seconds to wonder what happened before down suddenly became up. He was no longer pinned to the bottom of the pool but he was floating back up with considerable speed. No, not floating up – falling _down._ Bilbo felt like a frog in a jar of water that a little hobbit child decided to upend. Brain too foggy to comprehend any of this and how it made no sense, Bilbo’s basic instincts took over. His body felt like it was falling, so his hands flew up to cover his face. He broke the surface of the water as fast as a whiplash and crashed into the earth so forcefully that he made an indent in the mud, rolling several times with the inertia.

Lying on his side in the damp dirt, head buzzing, Bilbo coughed violently, vomiting a good deal of water, gagging and heaving inelegantly on his hands and knees. The first breath was sharp and painful but Bilbo sucked in lungful after lungful of hot summer air, chest heaving and rattling as he hyperventilated. His eyes stung, his nose streamed, and his mouth was open and gasping. It took Bilbo a while to realise that he was sobbing, and shaking like a leaf, fingernails caked in mud as if he were clawing at the earth to make sure it was there. Everything was so bright and painful. He was babbling nonsense, mostly profanity laced with thanking whomever had saved him.

But Bilbo was alone.

There was no-one in the grove with him. No unexpected saviour, no dwarves, nobody. It was just Bilbo, drenched and shivering and lonely in the copse of oak trees, next to the pool that had near killed him. After spitting out more water and bile, Bilbo wiped his mouth and croaked out “hello?”, only to be greeted with silence. He shakily got to his feet and straightened up.

“Is anyone there?” Bilbo called out weakly, his voice hoarse, “Hello? Who saved me?”

Nothing. Bilbo wrapped his arms around his bare chest and shivered, despite the warm air. His wet trousers clung uncomfortably to his skin and his curls of wet hair were plastered down to his scalp, giving him a bedraggled appearance. Bilbo touched the back of his head and came away with dark red blood on his fingertips, wincing. He wiped it off on his trousers and cleared his throat.

“Well, thank you,” Bilbo said quietly, a little bit afraid, “Whomever you are.”

His practical hobbit nature kicked in and Bilbo cast around for his shirt, waistcoat and jacket, hoping for his neatly folded pile of clothes, but he couldn’t find them. They couldn’t have blown away, for there was no wind and Bilbo had set a smooth rock the size of his clenched fist on top of them. Bilbo stared blankly at where they should have been. Instead of his clothes, his sword was unsheathed and buried point down in the mud, beautifully balanced, pommel glinting in the sunlight. It was done so purposefully that someone must have set it there, but again, _there was no-one there at all._

“What on earth is happening?” Bilbo said, slowly and carefully, becoming more and more frightened and paranoid as time ticked by. In any other circumstance, Bilbo would have pinned it on Fili or Kili pranking him, but he had specifically asked for privacy, and he was alone in the grove, after all.

“This isn’t right,” Bilbo muttered to himself, “I’ve got to get back to camp, find out what’s going on—“

He walked over to his sword and pulled it smoothly out of the mud in one stroke, the blade coming out clean. At least one could count on flawless elven craftsmanship in a situation like this, Bilbo thought. His wound at the back of his head was starting to throb painfully and it was bleeding a lot as scalp wounds were wont to do. The blood had begun to congeal and dry in his hair, and the nape of his neck was covered in blood too. It was starting to trickle languidly down his spine as well. Bilbo rubbed some of it away and grimaced as his hand came away crimson. He was not overly concerned. Many of the dwarves thus far on the journey had garnered scalp wounds, and Bilbo had panicked at first, but they had reassured him that even the smallest of scratches on the head could bleed profusely.

Still, it would not hurt to retreat back to camp and get Oín to clean and bandage it, Bilbo reasoned, tiredly staggering towards the direction of the dwarves. He felt very dwarfish himself at that moment, covered in his own blood, shirtless and wielding a naked blade. Bilbo laughed under his breath and shook his head, wishing for a looking glass. He must have looked barbaric. Thorin would probably laugh at him. No matter; Bilbo would explain what happened, clean up, slap some salve on his wound and borrow some clothes off the smaller dwarves for the time being. Maybe that would shake off the creeping sense of dread that Bilbo was experiencing. But he didn’t feel very convinced.

The smell of wood-smoke and charred meat, along with the sound of song and laughter, greeted Bilbo as he neared the camp, crashing through the undergrowth. He relaxed instantaneously. It was fine. He was safe. In a few hours, he’d be wearing dry clothes with a belly full of hot stew and brandy, and Bilbo would be laughing about the whole damn “near-drowning” lark with the rest of the dwarves.

“You would not believe what just happened to me—“ Bilbo said, pushing a branch out of the way and stepping into the clearing, before hearing a war-cry and being tackled painfully by Nori and Dwalin.

Heavily winded, Bilbo fell back against the ground, clawing at the tattooed hand that was squeezing his throat. He gurgled uselessly, eyes wide and staring up at Dwalin who seemed content to crush his windpipe. Bilbo’s already sore lungs were bursting with the effort to draw in miniscule amounts of air through his nostrils and his face beat with blood as his veins throbbed in his forehead. There was no recognition in Dwalin’s eyes, nothing that made Bilbo think that this was his friend choking the life out of him. Once you got to know him, Dwalin was a gentle giant, mostly all bluff. This was not the Dwalin that Bilbo knew. This was Dwalin as an attack dog, with his fury unleashed. Even Nori had his knives out, but he looked unsure and hesitant, staring down at Bilbo, one brow cocked quizzically.

“Dwalin, you can stop chokin’ the poor creature, I don’t think he’s fightin’ back,” Nori drawled quietly.

“Says you,” Dwalin snapped and presumably tightened his hold on Bilbo’s throat to prove a point. Bilbo turned a very attractive shade of purple and wheezed pitifully for oxygen, his limbs going weak, 

“That ain’t a goblin spy,” Nori continued dubiously, “That’s a hobbit, innit? Look at the ears.”

“Or an elf,” countered Dwalin.

“Funny-lookin’ elf, if you ask me.”

“ _You’re_ funny-lookin’, runt.”

“Dwalin,” rasped Bilbo, lashing out with his legs in vain, “Dwalin! Nori! It’s me! Let go of me!”

“I’d shut up if I were you,” growled Dwalin, his eyes narrowing, but he did do the smallest of double takes at Bilbo croaking his name. Without relinquishing his hold on Bilbo’s throat, Dwalin turned to Nori and muttered, “Get Thorin. He’ll want to see this. Then he can decide what to do.”

“Aye,” said Nori uncertainly, giving Bilbo a puzzled look before hailing Thorin from the other side of camp.

When Bilbo had been drowning, there had been no more welcome sight in the world than seeing the sun in the bright blue sky after breaking the surface of the water and taking in a lungful of deep crisp clear air. But when he saw Thorin reach Dwalin’s side, looming over his shoulder with a dark expression on his face, Bilbo changed his mind. Thorin was the most welcome sight in the world imaginable to Bilbo. He feebly reached out for Thorin, fingers crooked and trembling, even as Thorin sat down on his haunches next to him, thick brows knit together in a scowl. That didn’t bode well.

“Please,” Bilbo rasped, begging at this point, “Please tell Dwalin to let go of me. It’s _me_.”

There were a few frightening moments where Thorin neither moved nor reacted, save for the pensive flickering of his blue eyes as he silently took in Bilbo entire. Then, to Bilbo’s relief, Thorin murmured a few indecipherable words in his own tongue to Dwalin, who released the stranglehold on Bilbo’s neck immediately. Feeling like he had drowned for a second time, Bilbo inhaled sharply and raggedly, his back arching, and rubbing his bruised neck as he coughed spectacularly. There was too much blood in his head, roaring in his ears, and it hurt to swallow. He struggled to sit up in the parched grass, giving Dwalin a filthy look even as the dwarf stood up and paced away. Thorin still hadn’t said a single word.

“Do you mind telling me why everyone has seen fit to go mad, Thorin?” Bilbo asked, his voice hoarse. He touched the inflamed red ring around his neck and winced. “Why did they both attack me?”

“They didn’t know who you were,” Thorin said, his voice soft and dark like thunder, “You staggered into the camp like a wild thing, covered in blood and waving a sword. They reacted appropriately.”

“Appropriately!” Bilbo spluttered, shaking his head in disbelief, “Strangling their friend is not appropriate in any sense of the word!” He pursed his lips. “I hit my head, that’s why there’s all the blood. I couldn’t sheathe my sword because I lost all my clothes somehow, along with the scabbard and my belt. I’m telling you now, Thorin, this is probably the worst day I’ve had in a long time.”

“You know my name,” said Thorin. It was almost phrased like a question.

Bilbo squinted, tilting his head and parting his lips. “I know your—? Of course I know your name, you blithering idiot, it’s hard not to forget a name like Thorin Oakenshield, even after a blow to the skull.”

“I only ask,” Thorin said, “because I don’t know yours.”

Bilbo’s heart stopped.

“All right, that’s enough,” Bilbo said faintly, “This isn’t funny. Whatever kind of practical joke you and your company are pulling, tell them to stop it _right now._ Was this Fili and Kili’s idea? No, wait, was it yours? You’ve never had a good sense of humour. Faking amnesia? Ha-ha, hysterical, now drop it.”

Thorin didn’t smile. Instead, he rested his chin on steepled fingers. “There’s no mischief here, malicious or otherwise, master hobbit. You are a hobbit, aren’t you? Your kind is very distinctive.”

Bilbo felt like he was going to faint or burst into tears. This wasn’t happening. If this was all a fever dream brought on from that blow to the back of his head, this was an incredibly painful one.

“Thorin, this isn’t funny,” whimpered Bilbo, “You know what I am. You know _who_ I am. I’m _Bilbo_.”

 _That_ got a reaction, if Thorin’s sharp inhale of breath was anything to go by. One could practically feel his already thin patience snapping. His hand snapped forward and seized Bilbo by the scruff of his neck. With no effort at all, Thorin heaved upwards, bringing them both to their feet. Bilbo was terrified, heart pattering like a scared rabbit’s. There was something fierce and aflame about Thorin now, something snarling and possessive, with teeth and claws. One of his small knives had found its way to the soft juncture between Bilbo’s tapered ear and his jawline, where the skin was thinnest.

“Whatever you are,” Thorin hissed, his breath coming in short hot bursts, his eyes bright and dangerous. “Shapeshifter or other such foul thing, you are a terrible liar. You can’t be Bilbo.”

Bilbo’s small hands had wrapped around Thorin’s thick wrists sometime in the struggle and he dug his fingernails in frantically. “But I am, I am, I am,” he babbled hastily, words caught on half-sobs, “Thorin, you must believe me! I’m Bilbo Baggins, I live in Bag End, my birthday is the twenty-second of September and you’re my _friend!_ I saved you from Azog, Thorin, so _why don’t you remember me?"_  

He shouted the last words in his desperation, hot bitter tears trailing down his face. The cold knife hesitated at his pulse point briefly, before being brought away and sheathed. 

“Keep talking,” Thorin murmured, low and rumbling.

Bilbo gulped and took a fleeting chance. “I bet I stitched those wounds for you,” he panted, nodding towards a neatly stitched wound on Thorin’s breastbone, “Didn’t I? We had whiskey and brandy, and we made fun of you because you can’t hold your spirits very well, right? So you asked me to stitch you up and I said I’d knit you into a scarf. Sixty-seven stitches on the back, thirty-three on the front.”

“They must have left out the part about the knitwear,” Thorin quoted himself absently, staring at Bilbo with wonder in his bright blue eyes.

“Yes!” Bilbo cried in relief, and to his embarrassment, began to cry again, but through his hysterical spluttering laughter. “See? Thorin, I’m _me._ ”

Thorin gazed at him for a long while before nodding slowly and releasing him.

Feeling like a ragdoll, Bilbo hiccupped miserably as Thorin silently and gently set him back down on his feet.

“If Gandalf were here, I’d blame this on his confounded wizardry,” Thorin muttered, almost to himself, and despite himself, Bilbo smiled feebly. Thorin always sounded so put-out when it came to magic, as if its very existence were a personal bane of his. “And yet, he’d most likely have an answer.”

“So, you believe I’m me? I mean, that I am who I say I am?” Bilbo asked, nervously wetting his lips.

“No,” said Thorin simply and firmly. 

Bilbo’s shoulders sagged.

“But,” Thorin continued, “I want you to meet someone. Follow me.”

Bilbo gestured at himself. “Now? With the blood and the sword and— _really?_ ”

“Yes,” Thorin said impatiently, “Come.”

The other dwarves around the camp all gave Bilbo a wide berth but looked at him curiously as if he had sprung from the very earth itself. If anybody spoke, it was in low hurried Khuzdul to one another. When Ori looked up from his journal to gawp at Bilbo, he accidentally knocked over his ink pot as Dori cuffed him around the ear. Dwalin was resting his weight on his axe, glowering at Bilbo as if he wanted to set him on fire. Bilbo gave most of them an apologetic grimace, as if he were simply gate-crashing a party instead of causing absolute chaos. Typically tactless, Bofur spoke up first.

“Where the hell did he come from?” Bofur exclaimed, pointing rudely, his brown eyes wide.

“Shut up,” Gloin snapped, elbowing him in the ribs.

“I bloody well shan’t!” cried Bofur, utterly bamboozled, “Are we collecting hobbits now?”

A female voice piped up. “What’s with all the fuss and bother? Who’s collecting hobbits?”

Suddenly, inexplicably, there was a female hobbit in their midst, with dark gold curly hair pouring down her back and moss-green eyes. She had a pile of firewood in her slim strong freckled arms. She was wearing a curious frown and a grubby white blouse, with a fawn-coloured skirt and a mustard-yellow waistcoat. And she was staring suspiciously at Bilbo, who did look rather suspicious. There was something achingly familiar about her that Bilbo couldn’t quite put his finger on. It was something to do with how her eyes were crumpled with tiredness and her crooked white teeth and her thin lips, or something to do with the way she wrinkled her nose and huffed and shifted her weight.

“Who’s this?” The woman asked Thorin. “Anyone I know?”

Bilbo saw that Thorin was completely at a loss of what to do or say.

“I—“ Thorin began, and then stopped. “This man claims to be Bilbo Baggins, _ghivashel.”_

“Oh,” said the woman, “That’s awkward seeing as _I’m_ Bilbo Baggins.”

Thorin smiled, a small fond gesture. “That’s what I thought, to begin with.”

Bilbo suddenly understood why this woman was so familiar to him.

He had seen those moss-green eyes and that dark gold hair and those crooked white teeth and those huffy put-upon mannerisms every damn time he had looked in a mirror. They were identical to one another. The same height, the same weight, and she even had the same small burn scar on his left foot from when Bilbo had dropped a lit candle on it. Even their freckles were in the same place.

She was _him._

It was all too much. The drowning. The blood-loss. Everything.

“I’m feeling a bit faint,” Bilbo announced, bracing himself on his knees.

“Oh, he’s a fainter too?” The woman asked, half sympathetic, half mocking, as the ground rushed to meet him.

**Author's Note:**

> **to be continued.**
> 
>  
> 
> you can follow me here at idrials.tumblr.com for fic updates and general merriment.


End file.
